


The Burden of Love, Like the Grace

by dashakay



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashakay/pseuds/dashakay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s missed this, the sound of a woman getting ready for her day—small feet padding back and forth on the wood floor, the hiss of the shower, the creak and thud of dresser drawers opening and closing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Sarojini Naidu. 
> 
> The start of this may seem familiar. It was originally posted as a little snippet.
> 
> All my thanks to contradiction-to-nature for betaing the first part and to leiascully for wonderful Rajasthan details.

There’s nothing as quiet as a truly first-rate hotel. The Ajit Bhawan does not disappoint. The streets of Jodhpur not only feel far away but on another dimensional level entirely. All he can hear is the whoosh of the air conditioning and the even cadence of her sleep breathing. 

By all rights, he should be fast asleep himself, having survived more than twenty-four hours in transit. Fifteen hours from Newark to Mumbai. Seven hours in the first class lounge, vaguely dozing in an overstuffed chair and eating soggy samosas. Just over an hour in the air to land in Jodhpur, in the heart of the desert state of Rajasthan. More than an hour waiting for his luggage to appear and shambling through the customs line. And then the long drive through traffic-snarled night streets to the hotel, where she was waiting for him in the lobby, wearing a turquoise silk tunic and a strangely shy smile. 

Yes, he should be sleeping the sleep of the weary traveler but he’s afraid to close his eyes for too long, to miss anything. 

She’s sleeping with her head on his chest - cheek to his nipple, her hair tickling his skin. Propped up on several embroidered pillows, he watches the rise and fall of her chest and how her eyes move behind closed eyelids. He wonders what she’s dreaming of. The dusty, ancient streets of this city? Or does she dream of something more familiar, the rain-slicked windows of her London house? 

She’s always loved to sleep on him, as if he’s a particularly comfortable and familiar piece of furniture. Exhausted nights in Vancouver over the summer, fresh from her shower, she’d drape her wet body all over him, creating damp patches on his t-shirts and the sheets. 

His fingers tangle in her hair and he closes his eyes. He tries to breathe in sync with her. Slow, barely perceptible inhale. Two second pause. Strong exhale through the nose. He opens his eyes again. He can smell the bergamot of her perfume and the sharper smell of sex on the sheets. 

There’s a selfish part of him that wants to wake her, to spread her legs and taste all the places of hers he’s been daydreaming about since they left Vancouver. To hear her sleepy moans and whimpers as she lazily lifts her hips from the mattress. But she’s had a long day too, and deserves her sleep. His will come later. He can wait. Maybe even forever as long as he’s alone in a quiet room with her head on his chest.

* 

He gasps awake to the insistent beeping of a foreign alarm clock. Where is he? How did he get here? His brain flashes through several possibilities and finally lands on Jodhpur, in Gillian’s hotel suite. He blinks awake to find himself lying on his side, his body pressed up against hers. 

“Fuck,” he hears her groan. “It’s too damn early.” He’s amused to hear her swearing in an English accent. 

The room is still dark, the sky outside the window a soft gray. In the dim light, she sits up, the muscles of her bare back rippling under her pale skin. 

He sits up against the pillows and drowsily listens to her going about her morning rituals. He’s missed this, the sound of a woman getting ready for her day—small feet padding back and forth on the wood floor, the hiss of the shower, the creak and thud of dresser drawers opening and closing. 

Soft lips brush against his cheek and her hand grazes his thigh. He smells sandalwood soap and toothpaste. “I won’t be very late tonight,” she whispers and she’s gone. 

The room grows lighter as the sun rises over Jodhpur but he closes his eyes and sleeps all the same. 

* 

Just after noon, he emerges from the hotel, blinking in the sunshine. He’s armed only with his phone, a map, a huge bottle of water, and a small wad of rupees. Tomorrow he plans to see the Mehrangarh Fort, but today he will merely wander around, seeing the sights. Jet lag makes him feel like he’s walking underwater. His legs feel like they have twenty-pound weights strapped to each one. 

The narrow, twisting streets around the hotel are crowded with cars, motorbikes, and auto-rickshaws. He’s almost run over a half a dozen times until he catches the rhythm of the streets and learns to dart and weave. The hot, dry air smells like exhaust fumes, oil from street vendors frying what looks to be fritters of some kind, and dust. 

He wanders without any sense of real direction, lost in the bright colors and clamor of the city. He’s a little surprised that very few locals seem to pay him any real mind. He spots a handful of other tourists, mostly earnest-looking Germans in Birkenstocks. Street vendors call out to him and he has to brush off a tout or two offering a trip to the desert or a good deal on jewels. But mostly the people of Jodhpur are busy getting on with their days. Children in white school uniforms skip down the streets, expertly dodging the traffic. Motorcycles whiz by with whole families casually perched on one bike. Women wearing colorful silks glide by with baskets and bags full of shopping. Men with impressive dark mustaches gather on street corners, talking and laughing. Cows weave in and out of the crowds with impunity. 

It’s refreshing to be completely unknown here. Nobody whips out their phone to take a picture of him. There are no knowing glances or whispers. “Is that? No…it couldn’t be. No, it is him!” He’s just another bumbling tourist trying not to get run over. 

He steps aside to yield to a camel casually clopping down the street, led by a patient-looking man wearing a gold turban. It’s definitely not something you see every day on the Upper West Side. 

He wonders how Lady Mountbatten is doing in this heat, filming outdoors and wearing a heavy wig. Gillian is tougher than he is, able to withstand long hours and extremes of hot and cold. She’s made of steel, that woman. Meanwhile, he’s only been walking the streets for an hour and he’s ready to drop. It has to be at least a hundred degrees today. 

At a corner, he stops to consult his map. It doesn’t seem to make any sense. He has no idea where he is. 

“Sir, are you lost?” he hears a polite voice say. 

He looks up to see a tall, skinny boy, about sixteen, standing there. The boy is wearing what looks like a school uniform—white shirt, navy striped tie and navy trousers, a backpack hanging from one shoulder. “A little,” he admits. David stands up straight, a little wary. 

The boy’s dark eyes open wide. “Sir,” he says, his voice catching in the back of his throat. “Are you Mr. Fox Mulder?” 

He laughs. He can’t get away from Mulder, not even lost in a back street of Jodhpur. “I’m not Mulder, not really. My name is David.” 

“David Duchovny,” the boy says reverently. “Yes, the actor. I am very glad to meet you! My name is Suresh. What are you doing in my beautiful city?” 

“Nice to meet you, Suresh,” he says, shaking the kid’s hand. “I’m visiting a friend and seeing the city.” A friend. Such a small and incomplete word for all she is to him. In the last few years, she’s become almost everything. 

“Jodhpur is a most renowned and historical city. You must see the Mehrangarh Fort. From there you can see the desert and the Blue Houses, sir.” 

“Tomorrow,” he promises. “But right now I’m trying to get back to my hotel. Do you know where the Ajit Bhawan is?” 

Suresh nods vigorously. “Oh yes, it’s a very famous hotel, very famous. I’ll take you there.” 

The two of them weave through the streets back to the hotel. Suresh tells him about his two older brothers and a younger sister. One brother lives in London and another in Jaipur. His father is an engineer. Suresh has been a fan of the X-Files since he was twelve, when a satellite channel began showing episodes nightly. He’s in high school and hopes to go to medical school in Jaipur. “I want to be a doctor like Dr. Dana Scully,” he says, “Except I’ll treat living humans, not the dead.” 

“That sounds like a good plan,” David says. 

Another camel crosses their path. “You should go for a camel ride tomorrow,” Suresh says. 

“Do you ever ride camels?” 

The boy rolls his eyes. “Camels are for tourists. My family has a car and a motorbike.” 

Suresh peppers him with questions about The X-Files. Whatever happened to the bees? Is the Smoking Man truly dead? How did Scully become a surgeon when pathology was her specialty? David doesn’t have many good answers for the poor kid. It’s been thirteen years since the original show ended and half of it never made sense, anyhow. 

Soon enough, they reach the hotel. He digs in his pocket and offers Suresh some rupees. 

“I did this for friendship, Mr. David,” Suresh says, looking a bit offended. 

“Sorry,” David says. “It’s just that you took the time to help me…” 

“Better than money, will you allow me to take your picture?” 

He shrugs. Why not? Suresh whips out an iPhone and takes several shots of David standing by the gate of the hotel and one shot of the two of them, grinning in the dusty sunshine. 

“This was a very happy day, Mr. David,” says Suresh, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “I will never forget it.” 

“Neither will I,” he says. “Thank you so much for your help and your friendship, Suresh.” 

Suresh’s smile could light up the entire Mehrangarh Fort at night. “I hope you have a pleasant holiday in Jodhpur while Miss Anderson shoots her film,” he says and walks off with a wave. 

Busted, he thinks with a grin. That kid is too smart for his own good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I owe icedteainthebag all the mango martinis available in the tri-state area for her thougtful beta of this part, which made it a million times better.

He dives into the deep end of the swimming pool. The cool water is a shock to his overheated skin and he stifles a yelp as he comes up for air. The pool is empty this hot afternoon, his only company a pair of Indian matrons, gossiping under the shade of an umbrella and drinking chai. He slowly swims a few laps, his energy sapped by jet lag and forty-five minutes running on the treadmill in the gym.

In the middle of the pool, he rolls onto his back and lets himself float, his eyes closed. He hears the splash of the waterfall on the other side of the pool and the soft laughter of the two women. The late afternoon sun warms his face as he’s suspended in the calm water.

Not for the first time, he wonders why he’s here, seven thousand miles from New York. He canceled meetings, shuffled schedules involving the kids and his ex-wife and two different soccer leagues, all because of one tweet. “Especially one of you,” she’d tweeted.

Especially one of you. Four words that set everything in motion.

She missed him. She needed him. He’d go to her. End of story.

Vancouver feels far away now, the long hours of working together and separately, her small hands straightening his tie between takes, and laughing together over some of the more absurd lines in the scripts. He’s starting to forget the details of those blessed days, their miraculous second chance. He’s here in Jodhpur to remember again.

His eyes feel like they’re a size too big for his sockets. Time to rest. He climbs out of the pool and shakes himself off like a large, furry dog. He walks through the carefully manicured gardens and into her cool room, towels off and changes into a clean tee shirt and boxers. With a sigh, he collapses onto the big bed covered with soft cotton sheets that smell of foreign laundry detergent.

He dreams that he’s walking with Gillian, through the late night streets of Yaletown. It’s raining and they’re sharing an umbrella, huddled together against the chilly wind and dodging puddles. He turns to kiss her, right there under the umbrella in front of God and everyone in Vancouver, but she’s gone. She’s disappeared entirely. He stands there, alone on Hamilton Street, the cold raindrops stinging the back of his neck.

Once again, he’s lost her.

*

Something is tickling his face, something damp. He struggles to open his eyes but it’s no use. They’re not ready to open yet. He feels another, different tickle on his forehead and hairline and vaguely realizes it’s a pair of lips, female lips. “That’s nice,” he hears himself mumble.

“Wakey-wakes,” a low woman’s voice says, sounding amused. “You’ll never get over jet lag if you sleep all day. Or night, as it may be.”

His eyes finally obey the command from his brain and open. Gillian’s face is looming above his, her skin seeming to glow in the lamplight. Her hair is damp and wavy, her skin rosy from washing and perhaps a touch of sunburn. “Good morning,” he says.

He loves her face without makeup, each and every freckle visible, her mole standing out in sharp relief. If he tries hard enough he can remember the round-cheeked girl she once was, but he likes this version of Gillian better, fine lines, sunburned nose and all.

“Not even close to morning.” She kisses him, square on the lips. He smells her shampoo and a hint of the jasmine perfume she likes to wear.

He pulls away from her kiss, as tempting as it is. “I have the breath of an ox.”

“Like I care.” She rolls her blue eyes and kisses him again. “I detect a hint of curry and the dust of Jodhpur.” She hands him a cold bottle of water and he drinks half of it in one long draught.

Her lips trail down his face to his neck, where she finds that spot, the one where his neck meets his shoulder; the spot that, when properly stimulated, makes him instantly hard. Evil woman. She knows him too well. His heart quickens and he imagines the scandal if he dropped dead of a coronary in her hotel room in India.

He starts to sit up but a small hand firmly pushes him down. “Let me do all the work,” she says. “You need your rest.”

“Let me at least get my shirt off,” he protests and she laughs.

As he’s taking off his tee shirt and shorts, he realizes that she’s not wearing a stitch of clothing. It’s a heartening sight, Gillian naked. Somehow, through witchcraft or perhaps drinking the blood of virgins, her body is more beautiful at forty-seven than it was at twenty-four.

He strokes her full breasts, the skin silky under her fingers, her nipples hardening at his touch. “You always tell reporters that you don’t work out. Liar.”

She chuckles. “I’d prefer to be thought of as a rare miracle. Besides, always being seen doing triathlons, it’s rather gaudy, don’t you think?”

Flopping back onto the bed, he snorts. “You wish you had these rock hard abs, baby.”

A pale eyebrow lifts. “That’s not the only thing that’s rock hard. Speaking of rare miracles, you’re fifty-five years old, for fuck’s sake. Is there a bottle of Viagra hidden somewhere in your luggage?”

Her hand snakes down his torso, finds his cock and squeezes. He tips his head back as she strokes him with strong fingers. She knows just what to do. She always has. She straddles his prone body and kisses him, open mouth now, her tongue touching his, twining with his, while her fingers continue to drive him ever so slightly insane.

“You can search and search,” he mutters as her tongue lazily drags down his chest and stomach, “but you’ll never find any.”

She looks up at him, blue eyes wide. “Good,” she says. “I’d prefer to believe that all this abundance is due to me, not drugs.”

He feels her tongue swirl around the head of his cock, as if he’s an ice cream cone, a lollipop. His fingers bury themselves in her damp hair as she takes him deep in her mouth. Oh God. When he hasn’t seen her in a while, he forgets how good she is at this, how very, very good. Gillian is an excellent actress but her true talent is in the field of fellatio. Despite the efficient air conditioner, he’s sweating.

Eyes squeezed closed, he tries to think of something boringly neutral, anything to keep from coming as she starts to suck in earnest, still managing to do delightful things with her tongue at the same time. Think of income taxes, he orders himself, think of bowls of oatmeal, think of cleaning out the kitchen drain. Think of anything but the fact that she’s between your legs, your cock in her soft, wet mouth. You can do this, he thinks. You can be strong.

But then she starts stroking his balls, cupping and gently squeezing and he knows he’s not going to last long. He can feel the pressure building at the base of his cock and he hears himself gasping. “Gillian,” he exhales. “You’d better stop if you don’t want me to—“

Too late. She doesn’t stop and his hips lift off the mattress as his orgasm rips through him, his hips jerking in rhythm with the waves of pleasure. Her lips tighten around him as he surges into her.

No no no no, his brain protests. He’d wanted to fuck her, to spend a leisurely half hour or more sliding in and out of her, to make her come over and over again. This was not the plan, not that he’d actually had one. “Fuck,” he mutters as she pulls away from his rapidly shrinking cock.

He sits up a little, watches her lift her head and theatrically swallow. “Yummy,” she says and grins.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says with an equally theatrical sigh. “I don’t recharge quickly these days.”

“You need to think creatively, David.” She rolls her eyes like a petulant teenager, tosses her head of pale waves. She curls up next to him, her index finger tracing the outline of his lips.  
  
He shudders to think of what she might mean by creative. “What were you thinking?”

Her forehead touches his. “You’ve always been known as a verbal kind of guy.”

“If I told you my SAT score you’d probably faint.” He laughs. “Are you hinting that you might possibly want your pussy eaten?”

She smacks him on the ass. “Such filthy language you use.”

He slaps her ass right back. It’s a lovely ass, firm under his palm. “So says the queen of the word ‘fuck.’”

“It’s a beautiful, useful word. Perhaps the best one in the English language.” She kisses him on the tip of his nose, her fingers drawing little circles on his left deltoid.

He shivers. The overzealous air conditioning is rapidly drying the sweat off his body.

“Anyway, we were talking about your pussy?” he says. They’re getting much too off track for his taste. He props himself on one elbow and takes her nipple in his mouth, feeling it swell under his tongue.

“It feels neglected,” she says. She takes his hand and guides it between her legs, where she’s warm and slick. “All these nights in Jodhpur, alone in this big hotel suite. And I forgot to pack my vibrator. Just try to find a sex shop in Rajasthan.”

“That’s why I flew seven thousand miles,” he whispers. “That’s why you said you missed me on Twitter.”

“Stop being so romantic and get busy,” she says with a laugh. “You can romance me later.”

As he moves between her legs and takes his first taste of her, he remembers a night long ago, some awards show. The Emmys? The Golden Globes? He only remembers that they were young and beautiful and he felt stupidly in love with her as they walked down the red carpet hand in hand. Or maybe it was lust. He didn’t much know the difference back then. After it was over, they sat in the limo while it was stuck in post-show traffic, both of them a little drunk from the cheap wine served at the table. They were giddy that night—he’d won, she’d won, their show had won—and they couldn’t stop laughing about nothing at all. He remembers how he slid his hand up her dress, only to find she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. And he’ll never forget how he laid her down on the leather seat, her dress bunched around her waist, as the car slowly slid down Hollywood Boulevard. She tasted wild that night, raw and alive under his tongue, and he hoped they’d never arrive at their destination.

This is how he feels tonight, almost twenty years later. He doesn’t want the ride to end.


	3. Chapter 3

After midnight, sitting at the edge of the pool, which shimmers an unearthly turquoise in the dark. Gillian dips her foot in and he watches the ripples spread on the calm surface of the water. 

He touches the softness of the skin at the back of her neck, the silk of her hair. She makes a low, humming noise. Tonight she’s the rarest of all Gillians—calm, quiet, contemplative. Her normal mode is go, go, _go_ , always talking, constantly giggling, never failing to stop moving and doing. He’ll admit that she can be exhausting to be around for long periods. But tonight, she tips her head back and gazes at the stars with wide blue eyes. When his hand wraps around her wrist, even her pulse feels slower than usual, beating with a languid cadence. 

“This is nice,” she says, splashing her foot in the pool again. “During the day it’s so hot here I can hardly bear to breathe.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I feel good tonight.” 

He hasn’t felt like this in a long time—jet lag conquered and his body fully rested, his stomach full of delicious Rajasthani curries and several Kingfisher beers, the residual buzz of lovemaking still reverberating in his limbs, Gillian by his side. She’s wearing a deep pink caftan touched with gold embroidery, a white gardenia she’d plucked from the hotel garden jauntily tucked behind her ear. The heady scent of the flower tickles his nose. 

“This feels like a holiday. It was good of you to come.” 

He dips his hand into the pool and splashes in her direction. “Goodness had nothing to do with it.” 

She laughs. “You and your double entendres.” 

He knows all too well that he can sometimes wield language as a weapon, a means of keeping people at a distance. His therapist never fails to point it out to him. “Just say what you actually mean,” Anita frequently tells him in session. 

Say what you mean, he tells himself. “I’m happy here. Happy with you.” 

She turns to him and smiles, the little lines around her eyes crinkling. “Same here.” 

For a moment, he nuzzles her neck, breathing in her scent. “Do you ever think? Think it could work for real?” 

Gillian pauses, her eyes scanning the the pool. “I don’t know,” she finally says, her voice sounding deliberately neutral. “I don’t know if we’d make sense in the long term.” 

Something inside of him winces. “Probably not,” he says, feeling like he’s somehow admitting defeat. 

“I think about it a lot, though.” Her fingers trace the slope of his nose, the outline of his lips. 

“I do, too.” 

“Only time will tell,” she says. “I prefer to live in the moment.” 

He’s read at least five books on mindfulness, attended countless meditation workshops and he still has trouble with the concept. He fights against it, the logical part of his brain wanting everything mapped out, tied neatly with a bow. 

For more than two years he and Gillian have had this push-pull of a non-relationship. Hot and cold, months without so much as a text message, capped off by a weekend reunion. Whatever this is, it’s exactly the opposite of boring, but now and again he craves the comfortable tedium of a long-term relationship—making breakfast together, bickering about sharing the Sunday Times, coming home to see a familiar face, and waking up to that same beloved face. 

Gillian stands up. She starts pulling the caftan over her head and lets it flutter to the ground. 

“What are you doing?” 

She walks to the steps leading into pool, clad only in a black bra and matching briefs. “Swimming,” she says in an amused voice. 

“What if someone…people could…they could see us." The sight of her in any state of undress never fails to reduce him to stammering like a teenage boy. 

She rolls her eyes. “Live a little, David.” She slowly walks into the water until she’s chest deep. “The water’s lovely.” 

He finds himself upright and stripping off his t-shirt and shorts. He dives into the cool water, coming up splashing and spitting water. 

“Don’t you _dare_ get my hair wet,” she warns. “Chlorine turns it green as peas.” 

He splashes in her direction. “I can’t help it if you’re a fake blonde.”

She splashes him back. “I happen to know that at this point in your life, your hair color comes from a bottle, too.” 

He kisses her instead, not concerned anymore that someone could walk by the pool and notice them, could take a picture, could see what they’ve worked hard to keep hidden for the last few years. Nothing else matters when she’s in his arms, her breasts pressing against his belly, her tongue in his mouth. She tastes spicy, like cardamom and cloves, like Rajasthan itself. 

“We need to get out of here before we cause a scandal,” she pants into his ear, her hand snaking into his briefs to clasp his cock in her surprisingly strong hand. 

“Who cares?” he hears himself saying as she squeezes him at the root. Oh, how does she know just what to do? 

“Sex in the water isn’t as fun as it looks.” 

He has to admit she’s right. It really isn’t. Admitting defeat, he steps away from her grasp to hoist himself out of the pool.  He’s a ridiculous sight, dripping wet and sporting an erection under the size of Texas under his wet boxer briefs. He shakes his head like a Golden Retriever, scattering droplets of water all over the pool deck. 

She hands him a neatly rolled clean towel from one of the loungers. “That’s a nice sight,” she says and grins. 

“Let’s just hope it lasts until we get back to your room,” he says, dressing. 

“I have faith in you.” She slips the caftan over her head. He’s pleased to notice that it clings to her wet body in all sorts of interesting ways, the black of her undergarments showing through the thin, damp silk. 

Hand-in-hand, they slowly walk through the gardens, lit only by tiny lights set in the pathway. The perfume of the flowers is almost suffocating. He spots lilies, gardenias, lotuses, jasmine and a dozen varieties he couldn’t possibly name. The environmentalist in him wonders about the amount of resources that it must take to keep these flowers alive in the desert. His internal romantic tells him to shut the fuck up. 

“Look,” Gillian says and points at the sky. The moon is full, radiant in the dark sky. 

What else can a middle-aged man in the throes of a strange and grand romance do but kiss her under a moon like that? 

“You’re batty,” she says with a laugh. 

“This is news to you?”

Just a few more steps and they’re inside, Gillian swiping her key card in the lock, the door opening to a waft of the artificially cool air of the room. She strides to the bathroom. “I hope I didn’t ruin this beautiful silk,” she says through the open door. 

He strips off his clothes and lays them over the back of the desk chair. Someone has been in to turn down the bed, complete with colorfully wrapped chocolates on the pillows. He draws the covers back and flops on the bed. He can hear water running from in the bathroom. 

“Get in here,” he shouts in her direction. He’ll probably murder her if she’s daring to perform her lengthy seventeen-step nighttime beauty ritual. 

And then she’s there, she’s there with him, her lips against his, her hands all over his body and they move together, move as one creature. He feels himself hardening again as her hands do their magic and he touches her and makes her wet, his index finger sliding against her clit, circling it to her surprised gasps. 

“Now,” she whispers and he sits up, scrabbles in the bedside table for a condom, his hands shaking a little because every time with her feels like the first time and he wants it to be good, he prays it will be good for her. He slides the latex onto his cock and turns to her, lying on her back and smiling. 

Inch by inch, he slides into her liquid warmth and pauses when he’s fully inside. “I—I…” he groans. He wants to say something but he doesn’t even know what. 

Her small palm touches his face. “I know,” she whispers and he’s lost for good, thrusting into her so hard he’s afraid he might break her. Her legs lock around his waist and he slides in deeper, so deep he might just get lost for good, lost in her depths and her sweetness. 

This is it, he thinks. This is what he’s always looked for, always wanted but could never find and one of these days they’ll have to settle things for good because he doesn’t know if he can live without this woman who is moaning with him, breathing with him, meeting each thrust halfway. This can’t end, he thinks as he feels his climax building at the base of his spine. He looks down at her face, her eyes clenched shut, her mouth open as she breathes hard. 

This can’t end.


End file.
